


you will answer our taut hearts

by straddling_the_atmosphere



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Short & Sweet, set during the 3 week scottish honeymoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 23:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straddling_the_atmosphere/pseuds/straddling_the_atmosphere
Summary: Martin stopped writing poetry for awhile.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 4
Kudos: 85





	you will answer our taut hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Tma prompt from my tumblr: something to do with martin’s poetry?
> 
> title taken from sea gods by h.d.

Martin stopped writing poetry for awhile, with the Lonely pressing down on him everyday, heavy like he’s Atlas holding up the world. _Melodramatic, aren’t you, Martin? _Peter’s voice says in his head and Martin shoves it ruthlessly away.

_You’re dead, _he thinks crossly and he looks over at Jon, fast asleep next to him, overlong salt and pepper hair all over his face, silvery scars faded along his scruffy jaw and temple. _Jon, _who traveled into the Lonely for him, who missed him, who took his (cold, empty) face into his firm, strong hands and said, _look at me, Martin. What do you see?_

There was a time when he wrote so many poems about Jon. Embarrassing stuff, overly sappy and romantic and it described nothing of the man he knew now. The one who snored a little, who was so desperate for touch he clung to Martin even in his sleep, one hand curled in the fabric of Martin’s shirt at all times. The one who smiled more, an awkward, brittle thing like it wasn’t used to being on Jon’s face.

There’s poetry in the way Jon wakes up in the morning as the sun rises on this small Scotland town where they’ve hidden themselves. He stretches in a patch of sunlight, long-limbed and gangly and old beyond his years, knees and back popping, and all Martin wants to do is lean forward, press a kiss to the scars on his collarbone, where he knows the skin is warm and dry. 

Poetry again, in the way Jon looks wearing his sweater, too big on his thin frame, revealing a bony brown shoulder, hair pulled half up, half down, the sunrise pink and gold along his skin. Jon has dark, piercing eyes, but when the copper light of the sun hits them, they look like honey, like amber, and Martin’s a butterfly trapped in it, unable to move.

They had barely spoken the first day in the safehouse (”Daisy’s,” Jon had whispered, grief twisting his features briefly before he’d looked away.) They’d been too tired, too dirty, and had collapsed together on the one bed, their hands clasped together. But they’ve been talking more now, learning each other, and Jon is affectionate, more so than Martin had ever expected. He likes touch, seeks it out like a cat who’s found its favorite person, almost looks like he’s about to purr when Martin dares to run his fingers through Jon’s hair. Martin wants to write poetry about the way Jon looks when he’s reading, brow furrowed, lips pursed. About the way his eyes gleam, glowing a little when he accidentally compels something out of Martin. Even the way he apologizes for it, panicked, his hand touching Martin’s face, and Martin just laughing a little, giddy, saying “it’s okay, Jon,” shy as he says, “I don’t mind it.”

The first time they kiss–soft, warm lips tasting faintly of mint tea, the barest hint of tongue, his own face warm and Jon’s tinted pink–well. The language of the body–that’s a kind of poetry too, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr at _tomasortega_ and send me more tma prompts!


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